Add ‘Cold Case Hammarskjöld’ to your watchlist

A Danish-Swedish documentary [IMDb] about the death of then UN Secretary General Dag Hammarskjöld in 1961 has been described as “sensational”.

Danish director Mads Brügger and Swedish private investigator Göran Björkdahl are trying to solve the mysterious death of Dag Hammarskjöld. As their investigation closes in, they discover a crime far worse than killing the Secretary-General of the United Nations.

Piraya Film

What exactly [Mads Brügger] finds out in the film, one should see for one self, but we can say that the answers that Brügger & co. finds, answers much more than the question they had asked. Yes: We get a more than likely answer to who specifically killed Dag Hammarskjöld, based on both stories from the local witnesses who saw the plane crash on that fateful day in 1961, and indomitable research into everything from Belgian mercenaries to secret archives.

About nine years ago I made up my own little fiction about what unfolded in that plane 58 years ago. It’s on page 71 to 73 of my book; separating an anecdotal and a theoretical chapter. And it’s right here:

Interlude C: 18th of September 1961 in a DC-6 above Ndola, Northern Rhodesia

“Mr. Hammarskjöld.”

The colors painted by the setting sun across the sea, clouds and mountains were warm but the air was chill. High above intricate moving patterns were ever created and abandoned by the flocks of birds leaving for warmer lands. Soon cold winds and blankets of snow would transform this northern land and he would walk along peaceful frozen lakes where children would skate and he would feel at home.

“Mr. Hammarskjöld,” the voice repeated and Dag Hammarskjöld, Secretary-General of the United Nations, awoke to his harsh responsibilities. He was not at home in peaceful Sweden, he was in the heart of Africa.

“Yes?,” he invited the U.N. Aide whose hand was still resting on his shoulder after having shaken him into consciousness to brief him in a concise choice of words.

“There are airplanes asking us to land,” he said. Earning only a stare he added nervously: “they are British warplanes, they talk of a situation”.

Letting out a yawn from his drowsiness combined with a sigh from his impatience with imprecise information the Secretary-General pulled aside his blanket, got to his feet and moved past the aide and towards the cockpit. British military planes on the radio? He would get to the bottom of this quick because he had little patience left for Brits in Congo!

“…this is important, we are here to help you. Please land your aircraft on the strip by Ndola,” a British accent commanded on the radio as Dag entered the cockpit. The pilots looked helplessly towards him.

“Repeat after me,” Dag addressed his captain, “This is a United Nations aircraft. We are following a strict schedule and act on a mandate from the international community. Please communicate any concerns you may have regarding flight safety according to normal procedure.”

“Eeeh,” the captain activated his microphone and held it to his mouth, “This is the United Nations. We have a schedule and act on international community mandate.” After a short pause he finished: “Please follow normal procedure regarding flight safety.”

Dag stared at the pilot for a short moment. “Good enough,” he then said, “proceed towards our destination as planned. And let me sleep, please.”

Within minutes he was asleep again, the Swedish autumn mountain scenery yet again materializing before his inner eye. Determined he ignored the lowered voices and radio noise from the cockpit. But after a while he was brutally dragged from his dreams again. He stared directly into his aide’s now wide open and very worried eyes. “They’re warning us, they will shoot!” he offered.

“They say they’ll fire warning shots,” another aide raised his voice. It was in the middle of the night but now everyone appeared to be awake if not alarmed.

Then a series of high pitched thunderclaps seemed to go off from somewhere behind and above them, flashes of bright light shot towards the windows by the wing on the right side of the DC-6. Some screamed, some shouted vile insults to their attackers, some threw themselves to the floor. As if any of that would do them any good. Determined Dag Hammarskjöld started towards the radio. These British brutes were going to deal with the wrath of the civilized world, he’d make sure.

“I said, fire across his nose, not bloody up it, Billy,” someone could be heard saying on the radio.

Then a blast of fire seemed to burst from the side of their DC-6 in a deafening roar that shocked through everything. Dag was tossed to the floor like a doll, grabbed onto something then felt the contents of his stomach protest as gravity pulled the plane towards the ground and his body appeared to lift itself from the floor of the plane.

In the cockpit the pilot was putting up an impossible fight to maintain control of the partly propulsed, mostly aerodynamic mastodon of scrap metal now hurtling towards the ground below.